Beneath the rotted floorboards, time pulses,  
an arterial thrum of root-veined clocks.  
They do not tick for kings, nor bow for breath,  
but coil their echoes deep into the loam,  
dragging splinters of once-wooded oaths  
into the mouths of worms.  

What is time here, but the taste of damp?  
But the drag of green shadows across unblinking stones?  
A language older than lungs,  
a song of split seeds whispering their secrets  
to the weight of a thousand buried steps.  

Above, the weightless still mvoe,  
mistaking hours for thresholds,  
grinding moments into calendars  
as if order were a thing the earth might honor.  
Their laughter carries, thin as copper wire,  
breaking against the stone’s unhurried shrug.  

Here is the truth:  
roots keep the time,  
counting each second by the shade of moss,  
each century by the rise of the hawthorn's spine.  
And we are nothing to it,  
fleeting as the rain on uncarved stone,  
as brittle as the leaves  
crushed under their own arrival.  

I laid my ear to the ground once,  
and the earth opened a crack of sound—  
not a scream, but a swallow,  
a voice neither cruel nor kind.  
It told me this:  

"Do not fret your passing.  
Even your dust will kneel  
and grow itself into shadows.  
The clock of roots will claim you too,  
a heartbeat winding down  
to something soft and green."

I tried to write you down,  
to cage your shape in syllables  
and carve your voice into stone—  
but you fell through the spaces between the words,  
your presence an ache I could not name.  

You were the shadow  
cast by light too bright to see,  
the ripple left by a hand  
reaching for water but finding air.  

I am tethered to what is not,  
chasing the echo of an echo,  
a whisper that refuses to rest.  
You linger where thought dissolves,  
where memory curls in on itself,  
a Möbius of longing.  

If I could grasp you,  
trace the edges of your form,  
I would not.  
You are not meant to be held,  
only felt in the hollow  
you carved into my being.  

And when I speak your name,  
it splinters—  
a sound too heavy for breath,  
too light to fall.

In the quiet corners of my mind,  
Whispers of love and loss entwined.  
A heart that beats with silent screams,  
Chasing shadows in fractured dreams,

Eyes that see but seldom show,  
The battles fought, the undertow.  
A smile that masks the storm inside,  
Where fears and hopes in darkness bide,

Yet in this maze of tangled thought,  
A flicker of light, a lesson taught.  
That even in the deepest night,  
The soul can find its way to light,

So here I stand, a paradox,  
A fragile heart, a sturdy ox.  
Embracing all that I’ve become,  
A symphony of all and none.

A spider crosses my path,
its steps careful, calculated.
It pauses in my shadow,
uncertain whether to move forward or back.
We share this moment, the spider and I,
both caught in the web we did not choose,
each bound by the rules of our nature.

I do not crush it,
knowing there is no triumph in such an act.
But I understand, too,
that this same spider would show no kindness
to a fly ensnared in its silk.
And that is okay.
We all follow the scripts we are given,
finding our place in a world
that is neither cruel nor kind,
just indifferent.

We part ways, the spider and I,
it continuing its silent journey,
and I, mine.
In this fleeting intersection of our lives,
there is no victory or defeat,
only existence and its quiet persistence.

And as I watch it disappear into the grass,
the day carries on,
but the spider lingers in my thoughts,
a tiny presence that feels larger than it should.
It reminds me of the countless lives
we pass by each day, unnoticed,
each with their own silent battles,
each following the threads of fate
that weave us all into this tapestry.

I think about the webs we spin,
invisible to the eyes of others,
and how often we find ourselves
trapped in the strands of our own making.
How many times have I, too,
hesitated in someone’s shadow,
uncertain of the path ahead,
wondering if I should move forward
or retreat into the safety of the familiar?

And yet, like the spider,
we press on, driven by something
deeper than thought,
some primal urge to survive,
to persist despite the odds.
There is a strange beauty in this,
a quiet resilience that speaks
to the core of what it means to be alive.

Perhaps, in the end,
it is enough to simply exist,
to find our place in the world
not through grand gestures or triumphs,
but through the small mercies we offer,
even to those who cannot fathom them.
If I can shape the world,
if only for a moment,
into something resembling kindness,
then perhaps the indifference
is not as vast as it seems.

The clock exhales a trembling breath,
its pulse a shiver in the spine of time.
I wait,
unmoored in the ebb of minutes,
where silence holds the marrow of the night
and shadows braid themselves with longing.

The moon hangs, not as a goddess,
but as a seamstress,
stitching the veil of night with frayed intentions.
Each star—a pinprick in the fabric,
leaking a light too distant to warm.

I have heard the hymn of the ivy,
creeping on stone,
its whisper a litany of slow conquests,
its green, a defiance of winter’s gray.
And I wonder—
who will sing for me when my roots no longer hold?

Beneath my skin, rivers stall.
What was once a tempest
is now the measured drip
of something no longer daring to spill.
There is a violence in stillness,
in the way silence sharpens itself against my thoughts.

But let me tell you—
in the shadow of this unraveling,
I have made my peace
with the slow decay of mirrors,
with the fracturing of names.
The sparrow need not call itself a sparrow
to fly.

And when the end comes—
(oh, it is coming)
it will not be the roar of oceans folding into themselves,
nor the shattering of celestial harps.
It will be the sound
of a match extinguished in water,
the faint hiss
of something small,
forgotten,
forever.

...𝑰𝑻 𝑭𝑰𝑳𝑳𝑺 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑯𝑶𝑳𝑳𝑶𝑾 𝑷𝑳𝑨𝑪𝑬𝑺




Your fingers traced the edge of my jaw,
and I could feel the galaxies ripple beneath your touch.

We exist in fragments—pieces of memories we never spoke aloud.

I think we’ve both been running too long,
chasing echoes that dissolve before they’re fully formed.

But there’s something divine in the way you linger,
like a prayer unfinished, a truth unspoken.

I let you in, just far enough to feel the pull of your ache.

We are nothing more than ghosts in each other’s veins,

but god, how real it feels


when your hand finds mine in the dark.

They make their entrance—
She in lipstick red, he in black,
A beacon and a shadow,
All eyes on them,
Where whispers collide
And lower boundaries break.

Jealousy blooms—
A ripened fruit, **** and swollen,
A secret bite beneath his skin,
An angry itch crawling inwards,
She, the *****, the sin, the blame—
A ***** temptation,
An addiction burned into the flesh.

Strangers move among them,
Faces of mirrors reflecting her shame,
Eyes refracting his rage,
Life stretches thin,
An LSD trip spiraling,
Searching for meaning
In symbols of truth
Without faith to anchor
The screaming void.

Why the waiting?
Why the blame?
She—
The failure to society’s equation,
They—
A fleeting beautiful façade,
Polaroid shots and pixelated likes,
A collage of nothing,
Of no regrets,
Of red smears on broken mirrors,
And the scent of smoke lingering
Long after the fire dies.